Wild Cartography

Some places are little, stunted:
graves buried under a lake, ghost
towns and places void of hope.

(Hope, that border town. Hope,
that center of my every map.)

Other places are big, old:
bees were the first settlers here
and they drew people, hungry
for their honey.

Bedded on bees’ wings,
the people buried their queen
in a grave of honeycomb
and hoped.

(But hope is not breath.)

Winter is a killing time,
beestung season, Death-home.
She, Death, is another place, but
she, Death, is also a nomad.

I dream her path sometimes,
a dream of a child before she is born.

Death travels light, she travels by day
and travels by night.

My places, kept like keys
of secret locks, are not
holy or wise or even here,
but they are wild; they saygo seek me! come find me! love me!
live inside my walls.

(and walls are not unlike hope.)

Cope with a map of me,
I will: soft as fall leaves, the compass needle
rattles against my ribs.
I breathe into the sunlight,
and my shadow falls true north.

Alexandra Seidel writes poems and stories of things born from imagination and dreams. Some of her work can be found in Goblin Fruit, Lackington’s, Strange Horizons, and elsewhere. If you are so inclined you can follow Alexa on Twitter (@Alexa_Seidel) or read her blog: www.tigerinthematchstickbox.blogspot.com.